


Words That Cannot Be Said Enough Times

by Spacepolitician



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Bittersweet, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacepolitician/pseuds/Spacepolitician
Summary: Thirteen-year-old Laurent sneaks into Auguste's bedchamber in the middle of the night with tear-stained cheeks.“Shh, it’s all right,” Auguste murmured against Laurent’s hair, running a soothing hand up and down his spine. He did not fear death — he had never had — but the thought of Laurent receiving his corpse on the battlefield filled him with harrowing melancholy. Laurent’s body felt small under his palm, reminding Auguste just how young the boy was, reminding him how wonderful it would be to live and watch him grow. He repeated, gently, “It’s all right.”
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	Words That Cannot Be Said Enough Times

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Hope you enjoy this little pile of fluff and brotherly affection. :)

It was the sound of bare feet padding across the room that woke Auguste. His heart rate quickened with the sudden awareness of the outside presence moving quietly in his bedchamber. Auguste’s hand instinctively moved towards the hilt of the dagger hidden under his pillow. He opened his lids infinitesimally and watched the crisp shadow of a boy float across the moonlit marble floor. Auguste almost let out a huff at the realisation — this intruder was no assassin.

Tension flew out of his limbs instantly. He exhaled, letting go of the dagger as relief returned the lethargic exhaustion of the long day to his body. Perhaps the recent attempts at his assassination were pushing him over the border of paranoia. He had to remaster peaceful sleep one of these days.

The boy stopped in the corner of the room, leaned his back against the wall, and stood there in complete silence. Auguste sighed, closing his tired eyes.

“Laurent, forgive my prying,” he said, his voice hoarse by sleep, “But for how long exactly do you plan to stand there and watch me sleep?”

With the cruel winter winds howling outside the windows, Laurent’s reply came in a small, surprised voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Yes, I can tell from the stealthy way you move about.” Disregarding his body’s ache for sleep, Auguste opened his eyes again. Laurent’s face was veiled by shadow, but Auguste could see that his hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders high with tension. “What’s wrong?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

Laurent dropped his head, pressing his shoulders to the wall. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

Auguste pulled himself up lazily, anchoring his weight on an elbow, and looked at his brother. A fond smile settled on his lips at the sight of Laurent’s white nightgown that appeared clumsily short, barely reaching below his knees, as though the boy had grown taller overnight. His bare toes were curled uncomfortably against the marble floor. When Laurent was younger, he used to sneak into Auguste’s bed sometimes, in the middle of the night, shaken by a nightmare or frightened by a storm. But it had been long since the last time Laurent had sought his brother out so late at night. He was now thirteen, after all, and no longer afraid of nightmares and storms. That or, at least, he was now too proud to voice such fears.

Auguste dragged himself to the side, opening up space on the bed. “Since you have decided to walk all the way here in the middle of the night for no particular reason, why don’t you get in?” He lifted the side of his blanket, nodding towards the mattress. “I don’t mind a ghostly brother stationed in the corner of my room, but you will catch a cold.”

Laurent moved immediately, as though waiting for permission all along. He swiftly slipped under the blanket next to Auguste, placing his head on the far corner of the pillow. His cold feet momentarily brushed against Auguste’s, spreading goosebumps over the older brother’s body.

“Ngh, you’re _terrible_.” Auguste groaned in protest as he dropped his head onto the pillow. “Wear socks next time you are sneaking around the palace at night!”

Despite his annoyed tone and genuine hatred of the cold, Auguste took Laurent’s feet between his own ankles to warm him up. He knew that unlike himself, Laurent did not mind the cold, but Laurent also had a record of susceptibility to illness during the cold seasons. The last thing Auguste wanted was for him to wake up tomorrow with a temperature, just as the ice on the lake was getting thick enough for skating.

Laurent lay there quietly, his eyes lowered, lips pressed together into a thin line. Of course, something was wrong. That much was clear, but Auguste would wait until Laurent was ready to talk. He knew that Laurent was invariably mindful about what he said, and cautious about the way he said it. He respected that his brother lacked the rash temperament Auguste used to have at that age, and did not act or speak without careful thought. Auguste meant to remain quiet and give his brother time to think.

He abandoned that intent as soon as Laurent lifted his chin, looking at him with wide red eyes and clumped lashes. Auguste’s brows knit together.

“Hey, there,” he said softly as he raised a hand to brush Laurent’s bed-tousled hair away from his face. “Are you all right?”

The soft line of Laurent’s jaw appeared painfully tense when he opened his lips. “Are we going to war with Akielos?” He asked unexpectedly. “I heard about the Council’s meeting.”

Auguste should have known. He ran his fingers gently through the soft golden hair again. He had always thought that Laurent should be spared from the murky waters of politics until he was older. But Laurent _was_ older now, and more observant and clever than any thirteen-year-old Auguste had ever met. To think that he would be uninformed about the Council’s undisclosed meeting was foolish. To think that he would be unbothered by it was Auguste’s shortcoming.

“Tensions have been on the rise with Akielos,” Ausgute replied honestly, all of a sudden regretting that he hadn’t spoken with Laurent about the matter earlier. “War is a possibility.”

Laurent was, of course, not surprised, but swallowed hard anyway. The dim light of the moon was enough for Auguste to see that his delicate nose was beginning to grow red along with his cheeks. Auguste’s own throat was beginning to itch.

Laurent inhaled determinedly. “Our past wars with Akielos have always had the highest rates of casualty among all of our conflicts,” he recited the historical fact mechanically, desperate for the comfortably dull distance of the past between him and the razor-sharp present.

His choice of fact was, perhaps, misjudged. Or perhaps, it was a calculated warning, and a legitimate one. Laurent’s blinking quickened, trying futilely to push back the tears. Auguste’s heart felt heavy as he nodded, waiting for Laurent to continue.

“I had a dream.” Laurent’s words came out shuddering. He tried to hide the drop of tear that rolled down from the corner of his eye onto the pillow. Auguste caressed his hair again, trying to keep his own heart in one piece. “They brought you back from the front line. Your armour was drenched in blood. Your heart was pierced with a sword. You were dead.” Laurent’s voice cracked, the last word fading into a pained gasp.

As single tears turned into streams, Laurent gave up on trying to conceal them, and Auguste’s rib cage became too tight for his lungs. He wrapped an arm around his brother’s narrow shoulders and drew him in. Laurent buried his face in Auguste’s chest, soaking his shirt with tears.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Auguste murmured against his hair, running a soothing hand up and down his spine. Auguste did not fear death — he had never had — but the thought of Laurent receiving his corpse on the battlefield filled him with harrowing melancholy. Laurent’s body felt small under his palm, reminding Auguste just how young the boy was, reminding him how wonderful it would be to live and watch him grow. He repeated, gently, “It’s all right.”

He pressed a kiss to the top Laurent’s head and held him as close to his chest as he could. Laurent’s stiff figure was tangled in quiet sobs and occasional gasps for breath for a long time. Auguste let him cry, rubbed circles on his back until, eventually, Laurent grew quiet, tension slowly seeping out of his body. The boy did not pull away immediately, but sniffed, tried to breathe, and Auguste did not let go.

“I’m sorry, I— shouldn’t have bothered you with a foolish dream,” Laurent managed to say, barely. His fingers curled into fists around the fabric of Auguste’s shirt, face still hidden in his chest. “I’m just afraid. I’m sorry.”

There was always a dissonance between Laurent’s still childish voice and the over-mature mannerism of his speaking. It was a dissonance that usually made Auguste smile. Now, however, Laurent’s apology only made a muscle twist in Auguste’s stomach, made him feel like he could not hold the boy close enough in his arms.

“Laurent, it’s perfectly fine to be afraid,” Auguste said, firmly. “I’m afraid of war, too. But listen to me,” he pulled back slightly to see Laurent’s face. Laurent looked up at him with tear-stained cheeks. “I will do all in my power to prevent this war,” Auguste reassured, bringing his thumb to Laurent’s cheek to brush away the tears.

Laurent’s brows clouded his eyes. “And if you fail?”

“Then I will take responsibility for it,” he replied. He would rather give Laurent an unsatisfactory answer than a false one. “If war becomes inevitable, we will come to a military agreement that prevents unnecessary bloodshed of soldiers and civilians.”

Laurent looked at him for a long moment, and Auguste realised immediately that his brother knew what such an agreement meant. He thought of Laurent’s dream, thought of himself agreeing to a duel on the battlefield, and felt ashamed. He felt ashamed because there must have been another solution, at some point, and that time might have had passed.

Laurent must have seen the regret in his eyes, must have seen uncharacteristic uncertainty, and spared him. He did not ask about duels; did not blame him for not having thought of a solution a month, or a year ago; did not condemn him for not having all the answers.

Instead, he asked, “Is that why you have been studying the Akielon language?” He dragged his sleeve over his wet eyes. “Because we are going to war?”

“No,” Auguste replied, shaking his head. “I’ve been learning Akielon because when I become King, I will put an end to this infectious hostility between our kingdoms. We have been in this foolish conflict for far too long, neglecting what our nations have to offer to one another.” He then shrugged and added lightly, “And it’s a rather beautiful language. Easy to rhyme, a hundred ways to complain about wine, and whine about love.” Laurent’s chuckle lifted the mood instantly. Auguste smiled, raising his hand to ruffle Laurent’s hair. “You should learn it, too. I’m sure I will need you to do much of the talking.”

Laurent sniffed again, smiling, but the solemn seriousness soon returned to his face. “I have heard that the Crown Prince of Akielos is headstrong,” he said, looking up. “He detests Vere.”

“I wouldn't expect otherwise. He has grown up in a palace where hatred for Vere is the only constant,” Auguste said without breaking the gaze. “That is why you and I must be careful not to fall into the same trap as the Akielon royalty.” Laurent listened attentively as Auguste continued, “In the past centuries, we have shown them nothing but our bared teeth. Soon, we are going to offer them our friendship, and if they are wise, they will accept us, and return to us the same. Only then we will both win.”

Laurent paused, and Auguste knew that he was thinking, analysing his words, understanding them, taking them to heart. And Auguste suddenly had something even more important to tell him; something Laurent already knew; something Auguste had told him before. Yet, all of a sudden, it seemed as though it could not have been said enough times.

“I love you, little brother,” he said, and felt those words deep in his chest, “More than anything.”

 _I will make this kingdom — this world — a better place for you_ , he wished to say, but didn’t. He did not say it because he would not make empty promises, not to his brother, even if the cost of it was the stifling feeling of powerlessness.

Laurent forgave him for it, threw his arms around Auguste’s torso with unexpected strength, and squeezed him so tightly that Auguste could barely breathe. Auguste laughed, circled his arms around Laurent and patted his back.

“I’ll take this as ‘I love you, too, Auguste, but I am too shy to say it out loud,’” Auguste said playfully, and laughed again when Laurent’s only response was tightening his arms around him.

They remained there, silently, in a tight embrace, until Auguste’s lids grew heavy with sleep again. The bed was more comfortable, warmer than before, and not even the howl of the winds could blow the drowsiness away.

“You will be scolded when my governor finds out you still let me sleep here,” Laurent said, his voice muffled in his brother’s chest.

Auguste scoffed. “I’m accustomed to being scolded by your governor,” he drawled, half-awake.

Laurent smiled, nuzzled against him cosily, and the two fell fast asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I might turn this into a collection of ficlets, so rating/relationships/etc. might change. If you have particular scenarios you'd like me to write, please let me know!


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